Goodbye, Goodnight
by RRP
Summary: Sequel to "Broken Times". A funeral on a sunny day, to say farewell for one last time.


Disclaimer: Don't own them.

A/N: Sequel to _Broken Times_.

**Goodbye, Goodnight**

_By RRP_

            The weather never matches the mood. It always does in the movies, but never in real life. The sun was beating down, and it was one of the hottest days Delaware had seen for quite sometime.

            It certainly wasn't helping, that was for sure.

            I risked looking around, observing the few attendees. The funeral thus far had been a solemn affair, hushed and cautious. It was like a lot of the others funerals I had forced myself through.

            Near the back stood a group of his friends, young twenties that looked stiff and out of place in their suits and dresses—from what I had been told, they were the crowd used to wearing grunge. Depressed artists and thrill-seekers, the whole lot of them, and traces of that had leaked out. They had black make-up and spiked wristbands, and obviously had practice at looking disturbed.

            I stood near the carved out hole in the ground, next to Sam. A quick glance confirmed what I already knew. His face looked like it had been chiseled out of rock, and not a single tear escaped to trickle down. I also knew there was a tempest raging inside of him. We were just good at the mask game.

            The wiry little priest droned on, and finally came to a finish.

            "Matthew Richard Lawson left this life of his own choosing, but we pray that heaven accepts his weary, troubled soul. We pray that he will find peace."

            It sounded fake, rehearsed and stupid. I bit my lip and refrained from saying anything. There was a long pause, and then the priest offered:

            "Would anyone else like so say a few words?"

            There was some chatter from the group behind us, and one of the men—hardly more than a boy—was pushed forward. A tattered piece of paper was clutched in his hand, and he sighed before resolutely striding forward.

            At the front, the polished wood casket just beyond, he stopped. He cleared his throat, and addressed the small crowd.

            "Uh…Matty…well, he wrote this with me. Just the night before…well, anyway. It's supposed to be part of a song. But I'm just gonna read it…"

            I could sense Sam stiffening, more than I could see it. But he still didn't move.

            "Cold wind blowing, blowing right by me. I wander through the night, but I can't seem to find my sleep. The sandman must have skipped my house, or maybe he died too, along with the little boy, that used to sit on the moon. My eyes so old can't find those dreams, that I dreamed with you. And my heart so gone, it's been a long time that I've been out of reach. So don't cry for very long, and don't waste all your tears. I couldn't stay but you're still breathing, so breathe and do not fear. Grab those hopes and chase the wind, catch a star for me. This is real and this moment true, and you're still here to breathe."

            It stopped, abruptly, and the kid shuffled back to his group—they engulfed him, and he ended up standing between two girls, both with their arms wrapped around his lean frame.

            Again, that stifling silence. The priest whispered something to someone, and a soft song began. The group of friends formed a line without needing instruction, and from somewhere, produced roses. They inched forward, each dropping a flower on the casket as they passed.

            Without a single word more, they moved off and away. A handful of people who had come simply out of respect began clearing out with less ceremony, until only Sam, the priest, and I, were left. Us, and the casket with almost a dozen roses.

            I watched as Sam stiffly moved forward, and dropped a single miniature green plastic soldier on top of the casket. As he turned back to face me, I raised an eyebrow in question. He slipped to the familiar spot at my side, and whispered,

            "Long story. He'd understand."

            Nothing more was said, and nothing more was needed.

            We began walking away, and not once did Sam look back. There was no final regretful glance, at least that I saw. He left it where it ended, and didn't force it past the last goodbye.

            "Why don't you take the rest of the day off?" I suggested softly, coming dangerously close to dropping my façade in public.

            "No." The reply was terse. "I'm fine."

            I didn't press. He knew his limits, and if he was sure he wasn't pushing it, I was sure. We climbed into the car, and he resumed the role of Sweeper as if he had never left the driver's seat.

            "Back to the Centre?" Sam asked. It sounded more like a statement, really. I nodded and met his eyes in the rearview mirror. There was nothing there, just blank, empty space. A chill ran up and down my spine, but I resisted the urge to shudder.

            "Yes."

            Gravel crunched as he pulled out of the parking lot. I slipped my sunglasses on, and with it, my frosty demeanor. We had been human long enough, and I knew it was time, just as he did.

            The Centre was waiting.


End file.
